


That's The Last Time You Leave Me

by LadyKenz347



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Big Dick Neville, F/M, Second Chances, Sexual Content, Weddings, break ups, lots of side ships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28940628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKenz347/pseuds/LadyKenz347
Summary: After two years away, Neville returns to England and to the witch he can never seem to forget.
Relationships: Neville Longbottom/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 30
Kudos: 128
Collections: Love at Second Sight





	That's The Last Time You Leave Me

**Author's Note:**

> Lovely, loud thanks to Quin Talon for hosting this fest! It's such a great idea and I had a lot of fun. Also, all my heart eyes to Ravenslight for her exceptional beta work! I'm so grateful for your time and brain, sweet friend. 
> 
> My prompt was: Hotel

Neville Longbottom never quite boasted the best of anything. He was smart, but never the smartest. People laughed at his jokes, but it were often more of a snicker, less of a guffaw. He was alright looking, but until recently, he’d never been one to stop a witch in their tracks. 

He’d spent a good few years outside of England, popping in only to visit with Gran. Instead of sticking around like the rest of his classmates, he took a job with the International Magical Coalition. He represented England as an international diplomat, smiling for photographs as the famed snake killer and attending diplomatic dinners on the behest of the Minister. 

It wasn’t a job he necessarily loved. No, Neville Longbottom had never been born for the spotlight. But he was afforded a more than fair salary, paid travel, and accommodations. He spent years traveling the world, seeing every inch of it he could. During which time, he did a bit of training, cut back on the chocolate frogs, and began paying for a proper haircut. 

So when he’d returned last year, finally ready to give Britain another go, everyone treated him as though they didn’t know him at all. As if his new, trimmer waist made him any different of a person. 

And then, one night at Finnegan’s Pub, a familiar face caught his attention. Her fringe had grown out, her nose still perfectly upturned and full lips in a presumptuous pout. And as he laughed and reminisced about the good old days with his cohorts, he felt the weight of her stare wherever he went. 

He spent hours bolstering that Gryffindor bravado, and when finally he turned, alight with a delightful drunken buzz, she was gone.  _ Bollocks.  _ So he’d paid his tab, cursing the day he was given the spine of a jellyfish, and left.

Under the ever-present hazy mist of London, Neville turned his collar up and turned for the Apparition mark at the end of the block. 

“I know you.” A velvet voice purred through the air, and Neville quite nearly jumped from the curb. 

_ “Fucking hell!” _

From the shadows, Pansy Parkinson emerged, a knowing smirk on her crimson-painted lips. “You look different, Longbottom.” 

His mouth ran dry at the sight of her, clad in a painted-on black dress with nothing to fight off the drizzling rain. “Oh.” One blink. Two.  _ Three. _ “Yes.” 

“What? Aren’t you going to say anything about me?” She stepped further into the dim yellow glow of the street light, and his heart picked up a furious pace, slamming against his ribs in a rhythm he couldn’t make sense of. 

“You look well, Miss Parkinson.” He gulped. 

A soft peal of laughter spilled into the inky night as she slithered around him in a tight circle, eyes tracking his frame as she sidled closer and closer still. “I don’t want to go home alone tonight, Longbottom. Think you can help a witch out?”

Straightening his spine, his brow puckered. “You’d like an escort?” 

In the darkness, her white teeth shone brightly, and she took the final step into him, staring up at him through thick eyelashes. “No.” 

Idly, he noticed the gooseflesh along her collarbone and jumped to, shrugging from his cloak and draping it around her shoulders, all the while muttering his apologies. “No? Did you want me to help you find someone? Or, wait for the Knight Bus…” 

“You’re not very quick on the uptake are you, Longbottom? You’re fit”—she appraised him, her gaze travelling along his broad chest—“not to mention alone. And I don't’ seem to remember you being a complete and utter git, although you were a bit…” Wrinkling her nose, she canted her head from side to side. “ _ Vanilla. _ ” 

“Vanilla?” 

“Let’s have a nightcap, Longbottom. Things ended rather messily between Theo and I recently, though I shouldn’t be surprised based on some preferences he’s shared… I’ve had a rubbish day, and I’d hoped to snag someone in the bar, but the fare was less than ideal.” Slender fingers slid up his torso, and all his breath left him in a violent puff. “Except you.” 

“You want to shag? With me?” His gaze darted between her dilated pupils, each one hugging a rim of milk chocolate. “Do you remember who I am?”

Behind him, the Knight Bus screeched to a halt, startling Neville. Pansy remained unaffected. 

“I know who you are, Longbottom.” The hand on his chest slid down, cupping his manhood in his trousers, and his jaw fell open when she squeezed gently. “Fancy some fun? Or should I get on this bus and return your cloak?” 

xXx

Seven months, two weeks, and five days later and here he was. Sitting on his sofa in his posh little flat, staring at the clock above his Floo with a glower. Every lick of the flames brought the clock closer to midnight—the arbitrary time which he’d given himself before he gave up on seeing her at all.

Four minutes. 

It was silly really, this ridiculous companionship they’d found in each other. She was everything he wasn’t, sharp and witty, charming as hell, and the single sexiest witch he could remember meeting. From the time they’d first come together all those months ago, he’d known beyond a reasonable doubt that Pansy Parkinson was out of his reach. 

Two minutes. 

Still, he waited, because where Pansy was concerned, he’d gratefully accept any time given. Even if she’d said she’d been here at ten. 

One min—

The flames turned green and out she walked. He didn’t so much as flinch; his only movement was his fingers tightening around his now warm firewhisky. 

“Longbottom.” She looked good—but then, she always did—in a demure skirt and blouse that didn’t suit her personality. It was what she often wore when she had dinner with her parents and their hoighty friends. When he didn’t answer, save for a long-suffering blink, she snorted and tossed her bag onto the chair, toeing off her heels. “Oh, don’t with the dramatics. Dinner ran over, and I meant to get out of there, but you know how my parents are—” 

“I don’t, actually.” Eyes narrowed into slits, he lifted his glass to his lips and drank it dry. “Never met them.”

Her eyes twinkled in that mischievous way that only hers could, and her fingers tugged at the hem of her shirt, pulling it clear over her head in a single fluid motion. Underneath the flimsy material, she wore a sheer bralette, leaving absolutely-bloody-nothing to the imagination, and even after all these months, his physical response to her was immediate. 

Feigning indifference, he shifted in his seat, rearranging the quickly-growing tent in his trousers. She took a few deliberate steps towards him, bracketing her knees around his hips and sinking until she was seated. 

“You’re lucky you haven’t, honestly. They’re rotten.” Her back arched gently, rocking her heat against him. “I can make it up to you.” 

It was his turn to snort, rolling his eyes and turning away from the distraction of her pebbled nipples barely obscured by delicate lace. 

“I’m getting tired of waiting on you.”

Her slender fingers threaded in his hair, and she pressed against him.“Don’t be sour. I told you dinner—” 

He stopped her, closing his large hand around her wrist. “I don’t just mean tonight, Pansy.” 

The confession hung thick and heavy between them, the silence interrupted only by the crackling of the flames over her shoulder. She knew what he meant, and he knew that it didn’t bloody matter. Pansy wouldn’t be rushed. 

She lifted the tumbler from his fingertips and placed it on the low table behind her, then grabbed both his hands, laying them on the tops of her thighs. With a gentle touch, she guided his hands higher, sliding them under her skirt until they brushed the edge of her knickers. His breath hitched, eyes snapping to hers. 

“I’m sorry.” Her breath ghosted from her lips, and his need turned hungry, fingers drifting to the soft flesh of her arse and digging in, dragging her forward. A little cry slipped from her parted lips as he rocked her once against his length.  _ “Neville. _ ” 

He repeated the motion, head slack and resting along the back of the sofa as he pushed her back and forth. Merlin, he could watch her like this forever, lost in the sensation of  _ him.  _ She exposed the long, creamy column of her throat, and he sat forward so her breasts were pressed against his chest and his lips could latch onto her neck. 

He hadn’t realized how upset—how desperate—he was until his fingers were punishing her ivory skin, his grip travelling from her hips to her waist. 

Winding her arms around his neck, they were so tangled they couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended. Her teeth caught his earlobe, biting down hard enough that it edged on the line of pleasure and pain. 

That’s how they always were together. As if they needed to leave the physical proof of their union on each other’s skin like a map. Teeth grazing the juncture of her shoulder and neck, he quickly twisted, tossing her lightly onto the sofa and settling between her thighs. Quickly, he divulged himself of his cotton shirt, tossing it on the sofa and reveling in the way she drank him in, her fingers brushing the trim chest hair across his pecks.

With a few practiced movements, he slipped the button free of his trousers and then flipped her skirt up onto her belly. Her knickers matched her bra, delicate floral lace, barely covering her quim. 

Dragging a fingertip over her covered slit, he let her shiver and shudder under him. “Do you fancy these knickers?” 

All of her lust waned, her eyes thinning into slits. “Yes, so don’t you—“ 

_ Rip. _

“Neville!” Before she could speak further, he slipped a long finger inside her, then another, pushing in and out of her at a lazy pace as she dug her long nails into his shoulders. “You’re being a git; stop taking your irritation out on my knick— _ ahhh.”  _

He curled his digits, touching her in places she couldn’t dare reach without him, and his free hand came down to palm at his cock through his pants. “Stop doing things that make me irritated.”

She twisted and writhed underneath him, trying in vain to ride his hand as pleasured agony etched into her features. “Please, Neville…”

Sliding his fingers from her folds, he caught her hands and pushed them up over her head before slotting his mouth over hers. Licking and nipping, he drank from her. Everything she had to give. One hand came between them, and he positioned himself at her entrance. He sank slowly inside her, feeling her breath catch as she adjusted to the size of him. 

It always took her a moment, her cunt fluttering around his cock as she whined and whimpered. Finally, when he’d filled her to the hilt, she bit into her lip and nodded. Neville withdrew, his tip teasing her slit before rolling his hips and filling her in one swift motion. She cried out, back arching. He began a hard pace, his tongue pressing against hers in the same rhythm.

When they became breathless, their lips parted. Her knees hitched onto his hips as he fucked her into the sofa cushions. Her breathy whimpers turned to frenzied moans, and he could feel her reaching her edge.

She left angry red trails down his back, eliciting a hard hiss as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. It was rarely anything less than this with her; she was fire, sin, and whisky. And in these moments, he was engulfed in her, drunk off her kiss, and completely powerless. 

She slipped her hand between them, small ministrations pulling low moans from her as her sex quickened and tightened around him. 

“Fuck.” He grunted as he sought his own release, sucking in a greedy, broken breath as he came. When he was spent, he collapsed on top of her, caging his weight so as not to crush her. 

Everything about the moment transformed, their kisses featherlight as her fingernails trailed down the long strips of muscle along his spine. He settled into the space next to her, and she turned so they were nose to nose. His hand never stopped roaming, never stopped memorizing; he could spend a lifetime doing exactly this and never learn her well enough. 

“Don’t go.” His words were barely audible as he pressed a small kiss to the tip of her perfect nose.  _ “Stay.”  _

“You know I can’t…” Shaking her head, she shifted, nestling her knee between his thighs. “Staying… it complicates things.  _ We’re _ not complicated. I don’t  _ want _ us to get complicated.” 

A knot tangled in his throat. It was a fruitless fight, one they’d had too many times. Over the months it’d cost them precious time that he could have spent just being with her. 

Threading his fingers through her hair, he managed a weak smile. 

He kissed her again and again. Then again. 

He kissed her until they found themselves tangled again, this time rolling off the couch. 

He kissed her as she rode him gently, bathed in the light of the flames. 

He kissed her until the clock struck two o’clock, and she slipped her clothes back on, winking as she disappeared through the Floo. 

xXx

TWO YEARS LATER

Neville finished his drink, staring at the heavy parchment in his hand and second guessing himself for the thousandth time. His jacket was laid across the end of the bed, his tie draped over his knee. If he listened hard enough, he could hear the ambient sounds of merriment gathering on the lawn below. He read the invitation again: 

**_To Mr. Neville Longbottom_ **

**_You are cordially invited to the celebration of the magical union of Harry James Potter & Theodore Silas Nott Jr. _ **

**_Please join them for a Binding Ceremony on the twenty-fifth of June two thousand and five at Chateau Magie de la Lune, immediately followed by a reception._ **

**_Mr. Potter and Mr. Nott request any wedding gifts be made as a monetary donation to the National War Orphanage in London._ **

As he considered the evening ahead, Neville massaged his tongue on the point of his canine. If anyone could get Neville to make a special trip home, it was Harry. The bloke had given more than anyone else, and on this special day, he wanted to show up for him. But the likelihood that one Pansy Parkinson would be in attendance was high. 

The memory was nearly two years old, and still it festered like an open wound. He was sure after ending things with the witch and leaving for another tour with the International Magical Coalition that  _ surely _ the time and distance would bring him some healing. He'd been given a promotion, no longer solely working on behalf of the Minister but now representing a task force that fought for ethically-sourced potion ingredients and creature rights as they pertained to harvesting. It'd filled him with purpose, and for the first time in a very long time, he felt content. 

He fell somewhere between herbology enthusiast and politician, and for every hour of daylight, his mind chased work. He visited magical greenhouses and menageries on nearly every continent; he attended benefits; he was photographed with beautiful people and plastered on magical publications worldwide. 

But no sooner had he climbed into his bed than he would remember  _ her. _ He'd be walking through a greenhouse and get the faintest scent of freesia that brought him to a dead stop, memory washing over him in waves that wanted to drag him under. 

And now, as though she were a magical force all her own, he could feel the inevitable pull of her gravity. 

It didn't matter. If he knew one thing, it was that Pansy Parkinson wasn't a witch to fold. They wanted entirely different things, and while for a long time Neville had believed what he wanted most was her, it turned out he was wrong. He wanted a life—a wife. He wanted someone by his side that he could take to dinner and weddings and boast of. 

And that might just be what Pansy wanted too... but she couldn't give it to him. 

So he'd ended things as gently as he could, called his old boss, and packed up his belongings. His exodus had been sudden, but as painful as it was, he truly believed it was for the best. Rip off the plaster and get on with it. 

What did he know?

Sighing, he rose to his feet, fussing with his shirt and smoothing the fine fabric with his now sweating palm. He had no shortage of dress robes now, and he'd chosen one more casual for the summer wedding: crisp khaki linen crafted in the south of France with a thin, sky blue tie. He stared at the offensive pieces laying on the end of the bed and, having fully resigned himself, donned the jacket and began looping the tie through his collar. 

All that was left to go to the bloody wedding. 

xXx

The ceremony was beautiful, even if he did have to sit there with Draco Malfoy's hand continually brushing against his arm because he couldn't be bothered to undrape it from Hermione's shoulder. Seven years later, redeemed, and still a git. 

Neville had briefly caught sight of Pansy in a blush-coloured silk dress with a rosy-hued champagne flute in hand. He hadn't stopped to greet her. He was smart enough to know he wouldn't make it through the evening without acknowledging the witch—Pansy would never allow such a slight. But he hoped he might be able to prolong the inevitable until he was more drunk. 

Even Neville got a little misty-eyed as the couple took their vows, and suddenly all of Pansy's wailing about why Theo had been a rubbish boyfriend sank in. Theo's eyes were swimming in love and promises as he stared at his husband, ethereal silver magic binding their hands, heart, and magic. It was clear that any other relationship had been ill-fated from the start. These two blokes were made for each other. 

Finally the ceremony ended, and they crashed together, arms locking around each other as they sealed their union with a searing kiss. Neville shook his head and laughed; what lucky bastards they were. The crowd rose to their feet as the newly-wedded couple rushed back down the aisle, and like a moth to a flame, Neville's eyes ticked over to the witch staring intently in his direction. 

The sides of his throat closed in, and he made a face, forcing his attention to anyone nearby, landing on Luna, who had already picked up on their earlier conversation and was trying to convince Neville that Nargles needed to be put on the Protected Species list. He hadn't wanted to listen to it before, but now with Pansy watching him, he was intent to give the Nargles his unwavering attention. 

The reception was a tented affair on the main lawns, floating, glowing orbs mingling in the air with soft music and easy conversation. Neville was seated with most of his other classmates, and after dinner, the flutes of champagne turned to tumblers of firewhiskey. 

Dean and Seamus were next to him, the three of them in drunken stitches recalling the moment when Seamus had successfully brought down the bridge outside of Hogwarts. Many of the couples, including Ginny and her girlfriend from Puddlemere United, had found the dance floor. Malfoy and Hermione were lost in love, peppering kisses whenever the moment allowed as they swayed under a glittering chandelier. Ron and Gabrielle had returned from the loo with flushed cheeks and wild hair. 

Neville didn't particularly feel very emotionally vested in the evening, but he did carry a sense of contentment. All his friends, for all their faults and traumas, had found happiness. It filled him with hope that he might yet, too. 

A shadow fell over the table, and the three Gyrffindors peeked up to find the slender frame of Pansy Parkinson obscuring the light. The blood drained from his face as he rushed to his feet. 

"Longbottom,"she drawled, sticking a hand on her sharp hip. "It’s been a while." 

“Yes.” He grimaced, face scrunching up to one side because no matter what he would have said it would have been wrong. "You look lovely." 

His cheeks blossomed with heat as his two—now former—friends cackled and huddled together, bearing witness to his shame. 

Pansy's thin brow arched, her lip curling as she stared at them before rolling her eyes and looking at Neville again. "Are you going to ask me to dance or not?"

"S-sorry?" 

Scoffing, she jutted a thumb over her shoulder at the dance floor. " _ Dance _ ? You do know what that is, right?"

"You want to—" The snickering of his mates interrupted his thought, and he quickly pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to wrangle his thoughts. "You want to dance with me?" 

A slow smirk played on her lips, and she shrugged. "I mean, since you're asking so nicely... why not? For old time’s sake." 

It wasn't that Neville didn't want to dance with her. Hell, if she’d asked him two years ago, he was quite certain he’d wanted to dance all his dances with her, but the proximity might cause an issue. The touching, too. 

His lips folded inward as he nodded and then rounded the table. "After you." 

She slipped effortlessly into place in his arms, a puzzle piece finally wedging home. The familiar scent of her perfume and the gentle curve of her spine dragged a hundred memories to the front of his mind. He couldn't even look at her, instead staring out into the crowd with great intensity. 

"How've you been, Longbottom? I see your picture everywhere these days." 

Neville swallowed thickly. "I've been well, thank you. And you?"

"Much the same, I'm afraid. The droll thing about society circles is that things rarely change." 

He hummed, politely agreeing. A long stretch of silence passed, and Neville could practically feel the tension radiating from her skin. 

"So," she finally said with a huff, "we aren't going to talk about it, then?"

Inadvertently, his gaze flickered down to hers. He'd seen Pansy in all her forms, or so he’d thought. He'd seen her irate and annoyed, flustered and undone. He'd seen her laugh— _ really  _ laugh—and seen her stoic and unphased. But this was something wholly different. Her brows, which were usually arched disdainfully, were pulled low over her dark eyes, tears welling along her lashes. There was a slight tremble to her jaw that he couldn't ignore, and everything inside him screamed. 

"About what?" he breathed, unable to look away now that he'd seen her properly. 

"About us?"

A tense knot settled in the back of his throat. Of course he wanted to make it all better. He wanted her and perhaps always would. He'd met more beautiful women than all of his classmates combined, but not a single one made him think he might someday forget Pansy. He was mercilessly stuck in her orbit. 

But as much as wanted her—as much as he loved her—they were on different paths. Neville had grown a spine somewhere along the way, and he no longer was able to accept scraps of someone's attention. Not even Pansy Parkinson’s. 

"There is no us, Pans. There never was." His hands fell away, and he reached up to scratch at his stubbled jaw. "I'm just a bloke that used to help you forget about your problems for a while. Excuse me." 

He left her on the dance floor, stopping only to grab his jacket, and then marched across the lawn towards the side entrance of the hotel. He'd have a drink, fall asleep, and be whisked away to Bucharest with a morning Portkey. Soon, he'd be able to forget. 

He only made it to the middle of the lawn before he stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of his surname. 

" _ Longbottom!"  _

For a brief moment, he considered continuing on, but he didn't trust the witch not to hex him with his back turned. He dragged a tired hand down his face and turned in defeat. "What?"

She was a vision of self-righteous rage, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled at the sight of her. "How dare you!" 

"Excuse me?" 

"You heard me, you insufferable git," she spat as she stopped just short of him, her chest nearly brushing his stomach. She was a tiny thing, but even Neville was terrified of her in such a state. "You break my heart, forget my existence for two bloody years, ignore me all evening, and then have the audacity to leave me on a dance floor? You're lucky I don't—" 

"Pansy," he protested, "I have nothing left to give. You made it clear two years ago that you couldn't give more than you were. Unless something has changed, I can't keep waiting around for you to want me. It's not fair to me." 

Her narrowed eyes fluttered over his face before steeling. "What if things have changed?" Her jaw hardened, as if she were bracing herself for the worst. "What if I've changed?"

"What's that mean?" 

"I was stupid," she confessed, a tear rolling over her cheek. "I know that. I've known that for a while now, but I wanted to tell you in person. I was so caught up with what my parents might think... of what they expected from me." She sniffed and banished the tear with the tips of her fingers. "You'll never understand how hard it is to be a woman in this world, and I'm sorry it took me a long time to figure it out. But I did." 

The sides of this throat closed in. "Figured out what, exactly?"

Her teeth cut into her bottom lip. "That I love you." 

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

A gentle laugh escaped her. "I know, it was quite a surprise to me too. A bleeding Gryffindor, of all people." She took another step, and her hand came up to curl behind his neck. "I know it's not enough, not even close, but I'm sorry, Neville. I was stupid and selfish, and you didn't deserve to be treated like an option." 

He wanted to believe it, wanted to believe it more than anything, but she'd had seven months and then two years to tell him. 

Involuntarily, he stepped back. "Maybe too much time has passed... we've hurt each other too much." 

"Do you love me?" 

"Merlin, Pansy,” he groaned. What kind of question was that?

"Do you? Because if you love me and I love you, than I say fuck everything else. We'll figure it out later." Pansy reached for him, fingers fisting in his expensive cotton oxford. "Do you?"

A disbelieving smile tugged at his lips. "Of course I do. I always bloody ha—" 

His confession was silenced as she lifted onto her toes and pressed her lips to his. It was as though he'd been holding a breath in for two years and his entire body relaxed at her touch. He was barely aware of his own movements as his arms banded around her waist and pulled her closer. London would never be home; she was.

Overhead, an explosion of fireworks burst into the night sky, causing them to jump and turn back towards the tent. The sky filled with vibrant color and incredible magic. Pansy laughed and settled back into his chest as they watched them in silence. 

When the fireworks ended, Neville said, "I have to leave in the morning. I have an event in Romania, and from there I go right to the States. Maybe I can make it back in a few—" 

She turned, a smirk on her full lips. "I like Romania. Never been to the states, though." 

Neville's eyes widened. "You'd... you'd come with me?"

The smirk stretched into a grin, and she tugged him towards the entrance of the hotel. "That time on the dance floor? That's the last bloody time you leave me, Neville Longbottom." 


End file.
